


How I Lost My Job at Capes Quarterly

by Elf (Elfwreck), gwenfrankenstien



Category: Outsiders (Comics), Superman (Comics)
Genre: DCU Big Bang, Explicit Consent, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Hand Jobs, Humor, Jobs, Journalism, M/M, Magazines, News Media, Other Offscreen Relationships, POV Original Character, Worldbuilding, background Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne - Freeform, background Dick Grayson/K'oriandr, celebrity superheroes, one-night stands, publishing, superpowered sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 09:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16513667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfwreck/pseuds/Elf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenfrankenstien/pseuds/gwenfrankenstien
Summary: Capes Quarterly is a "family magazine," and it just won't run some stories about Superman. One columnist decides they should be published anyway. It doesn't occur to him that Superman might have some opinions about his private life being put on display.





	How I Lost My Job at Capes Quarterly

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during the Outsiders run, loosely. Pre-New 52, with handwavy connections to various timelines. No Man's Land happened; New-52 retcons didn't, or haven't yet. The characters draw a great deal of inspiration from Teland.
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful betas, iimpavid and glymr, and to my most delightful artist, gwenfrankenstien! This was terrific fun!

I used to be an editor at Capes Quarterly. Not _the_ editor, of course; that was Don Mimio, who decided what did and didn't go in every issue. He went to charity events and shook hands with the guys in gloves. Don got his picture taken with the JLA (or at least, managed to get his face visible in the edges of the picture) and sometimes dated third-string villain women (I can't even think the word "villainess" with a straight face) who wanted a few column-inches and maybe a pic of their new outfit. I was just Morris Harvine, _an_ editor, a glorified typesetter-and-proofreader who occasionally wrote an op-ed column. I never had the guts to talk to capes directly at any of publicity events they sometimes do, nor the bad luck to need their professional attention, but I thought about maybe meeting one of them someday. I'd imagine these elaborate conversations where I explained my theories on Life, the Multiverse, and Everything, and they smiled and told me I was interesting. Which was stupid, really, because why would a bona-fide hero want to talk with a fat middle-aged guy with pizza stains on his t-shirt? (It's clean. Honest. Sometimes I swear MegaSlice uses genetically-altered tomatoes with Kryptonian color cells.) I know I'm the opposite of interesting. I know interesting when I see it, which is why I became an editor, not a writer.

I edited the "real-life encounters" section in both CQ and the weekly Heroic Headlines offshoot. When I took it over, it was languishing under the name "Close Encounters of the Caped Kind," which probably sounded great in the early 80s. Three decades later, contact with aliens isn't an exotic science-fiction concept; it's a CNN report. The section—which was a half-page in most issues, up to a full page if we had a pic—ran articles like "Rescued by Green Lantern" and "Booster Gold Signed My Cast." I changed the name to "Meetings with Masks," which isn't actually better but at least doesn't sound like a nostalgia page. I got Design to do a logo that turned MwM into a domino and trailed the words out diagonally underneath it, and it looked almost like a feature page.

I pushed for more human interest, less heroism; I figured the whole rest of the magazine was about who got rescued how. And anyway, the news department had dibs on all the good photos—if we had a shot of Wonder Woman lassoing a pedestrian out of the way of a speeding bus, _I_ wasn't going to get to use it. I got shots of Arsenal's empty quiver being picked up by a teenager or Power Girl flinging rubble out of a collapsed building. Which would be great, if her super-speed weren't making her blurry.

I focused on stories where we could get good shots even if they weren't "heroic" shots. We showed Aquaman talking to the marine biologists at Oceanland. (Courtesy of the Atlantean Embassy; it's easy to get shots of royalty doing diplomatic things.) Green Arrow II helping a family out of a half-crushed car. (Shots of him shooting out the tires of the hit-and-run went to News.) The Flash dropping a hundred-dollar bill on a diner table full of empty food baskets. (Blurry, of course. But nobody minds when it's the Flash.) We ran stories about the daughter of a scientist who wants to grow up to make waterproof prosthetics, the woman who's decided that green feathers are her good-luck charm forever, and the counter clerk who made and served ten double-espressos in under four minutes. We ran stories that made people feel _connected_ to the heroes, made them think their daily lives could have a touch of all that power and glory, and they ate it up. We started getting requests for more stories, and the section grew from a half-page to page-and-a-half to a four-page spread.

And I couldn't run stories about Superman.

 _Every_ journalist wants stories about Superman. If they write morning-edition news, they want stories of foiled robberies and pics of stolen boats lifted out of the harbor. If they write an advice column, they want "what should I wear when Superman visits my college?" questions. If they write a cooking column, they want Kryptonian recipes. Everyone wants to cover Superman. He's career _gold_ —Lane can write her own ticket in any newsroom on the planet—and besides, _he's Superman_.

I never wrote about Superman. Not that I didn't want to—career gold, right?—and not that I didn't have material. Superman does charity events. He does publicity fundraisers. He visits orphans in hospitals; he gives anti-war lectures at political rallies; he talks to reporters after he puts half-exploded buildings back on their foundations; he rescues _kittens from trees_ , for godsakes… he's _available_. He doesn't stick around for long at any of them, but he's not like the goddam Batman, who doesn't even have the decency to confirm his existence, so half the reporters in the country think he's a myth. UNlike the goddam Batman, we have pictures of Superman. And soundbites. Superman is _friendly_.

And he's front-page news. Always. Back-of-the-magazine filler-articles don't get Superman pictures, and every story I got about Superman was snagged by some other department. Impoverished middle-schooler tripped on her way to school because her shoes were too tight, and got a lift from Superman? Snapped up by the Education department. Drunken football team drove an SUV across a crowded beach until Superman lifted them out of the way? Sports. Storefront windows shattered by low-flying jet and Superman fixed them with heat vision? Science and Technology. Superman's cape got burned away by lasers and he borrowed someone's blankets to wrap up the bad guys? FASHION, goddamit, grabbed my "Superman borrowed my laundry" article.

It's enough to make a grown man cry. I had a four-page spread to fill (well, two and three-quarters after space for advertising) and I couldn't keep a single story about the World's Greatest Hero.

I was getting desperate. I started looking at stories I knew would never get approval, just because I was sure some other department wouldn't take them.

I had a letter from a college girl who said Superman rescued her from a sorority hazing gone wrong and then stayed the night with her. I wasn't sure if that was true; Superman seems awfully busy for that. I had a story claiming Superman broke up a gay-bashing by swooping in and kissing the target; the guys swinging crowbars decided they had somewhere else to be. The target was unable to convince Superman to stick around for more action; apparently there was a hurricane in Madagascar that needed his attention. I've seen the pics for the Madagascar rescue; Supes' briefs do look a bit… snug. I had a story about a graveyard shift office clerk whose printer exploded. Superman got between the printer and the clerk, then discovered the reason she'd not noticed it smoking: she'd been distracted by her boyfriend dumping her for someone younger and richer. Superman apparently spent the next two hours convincing her she was plenty attractive and also, her ex had completely missed her multiorgasmic traits.

That one got to me, made me ache a bit. Not the sex—I'm not gay, not even for Superman—but the idea that he just _shows up_ in random offices sometimes, and rescues people from the little accidents that make life hell. I had to fight to keep from sabotaging my own office equipment for three weeks after I got that one.

Then I wrote it up. Toned down the language a bit—HH and CQ are family mags—and focused on the "late-night office rescue" part. Even had a pic that she'd wrangled out of the office security cameras, of him holding the smoking printer, with soot and ink splashed over his chest.

He looked heroic. He always looks heroic in the pics. That's why they always get snapped up by other departments. Other heroes shake kids' hands and look avuncular; Superman looks like he's inducting them into the Hero Service. Other heroes get a faceful of soot and ink and look foolish; Superman makes the ink look embarrassed to be messing up his color scheme.

I figured the pic would get snagged by someone else—office equipment counts as technology; it'd probably get used for an article about the dangers of science gone bad—but I could still run "Midnight Rescue: Body and Soul." I typed it up, sent it in, and waited for my pat on the head for finally getting a story about Superman that was minor enough to run in MwM.

Mimio canned it.

"Not our kind of story. Find something less tacky."

"What's tacky about 'rescued her from office equipment and then rebuilt her confidence?' We run those stories all the time."

"'Rebuilt her—' Morrie, you've been down in that basement too long if you don't know the problem with that. I can't even tell you how wrong that is."

I thought about that for a minute. Yeah, okay, most of our "rescue followed by rebuild" articles involve help with trips to a doctor or visits to the park or reconnecting with estranged family. Rescue followed by hookup is… more rare. But we _do_ have a precedent.

"We run those date-with-Green-Arrow articles all the time," I reminded him.

Mimio growled at me. "Green Arrow the First is a fucking horndog! Everyone knows that! He chases everything in skirts; I got no idea where he finds time to shoot bad guys."

I took a deep breath. "Don… according to some of the letters I'm getting, Superman puts him to shame."

"…What?"

"Green Arrow doesn't spend much time in Japan. Or Italy. Or Australia. Or…"

"Nevermind! I get it." He scowled while he stewed over that. I decided to help him think.

"I can't read Korean or Arabic, but I get letters about him in both of those languages."

"Really? I mean, how can you tell?"

"Photos."

" _Really?_ What kind?"

I couldn't tell if he was just stunned and playing for time, or if he actually wanted to know. I opted for the first.

"I don't think you want to know."

He put one hand over his face. "You have photos. Of Superman. That you don't want me to see."

"I don't think anyone wants to see these pics. I kinda wish I could wipe them out of my brain. And that's aside from the amateur smartphone photo quality."

Don shook himself. Then he glared at me, like it's my fault that Superman gets around. He pounded his fist on the table and said, "No, dammit! I am not running a goddam gossip rag! Superman, for crissake, does not HAVE SEX with the people he rescues, and we are not running stories that say that he does!"

"But—"

"NO! I don't care what Superman does in his private life; Capes Quarterly is not running articles that say he's some kind of slut! Superman is a HERO, and he will be treated as such! Got it?" He glared at me.

I hung my head. "Got it."

"Run one of those 'Outsiders landed on my car' things instead. Talk to Lorraine; she's got footage of that tall chick with the tatts punching through a window."

"Grace."

"No, Lorraine. Isn't Grace the new intern in accounting?"

I sighed. "Grace Choi. The 'tall chick' is named Grace. She's an Amazon."

I had plenty of stories about Grace. And photos. Most of which were unprintable in a magazine you don't need ID to buy.

"Whatever," Don said. "Now get out of here and get something ready by nine a.m. tomorrow, or I'll give one of your pages to the JSA spotlight team."

I knew when I was beat. "Will do." I went back to my office and scrounged up letters from a few people caught in the wake of the Outsiders' most recent visit to Metropolis. I managed to find quotes about Grace that made her sound intimidating without sounding like a public menace, and something about Nightwing smiling at a taxi driver. I pondered whether he had pheromones; the way people reported his smiles always made me think they'd been drugged.

I stayed late and got the copy to production before midnight, but that was the beginning of the end. I had all these terrific stories, and I couldn't _do_ anything with them. And not like some of Green Arrow's one-night-stand tales that bordered on coercion; every story about Superman pointed to him being downright obsessive about consent. Superman was apparently into _willing_ partners, and was it really his fault that half the population of the planet was willing to sleep with him?

***

It took me six months to sort out the logistics and gather the capital to put together a stand-alone issue. I brought up the idea with Mimio—once—just long enough to get his consent to do it on my own as long as CQ's name wasn't mentioned.

I may have been a bit sneaky about that. I caught him on a Friday morning after a metahuman prison break; four super-teams were involved in the cleanup and every reporter we had was chasing leads.

"Hey Don? You remember those Superman stories I told you about?"

"What? Oh, yeah, _those_ stories. You aren't trying to run them, are you?" He looked at me sharply just for a minute.

I waved him off. "Nah. Not here. But I was wondering if I could contact some of the people who sent them in for more info; they might have other details that some of the columnists could use."

"Just contact for other details? I guess that's okay." Distracted again. Good.

"I might have to get 'em talking about the stories they sent in."

"Do whatever you want, as long they know that smut is never going to run in Capes Quarterly or Heroic Headlines." He picked up a folder stuffed with printouts of cellphone photos of villains and started laying them out on his desk.

"Sure thing, boss." I slipped back to my office, comfortably certain that he'd forget the conversation entirely. I now had carte blanche to do research, and if I squinted, I could take that as permission to publish the results of that research—elsewhere.

I started contacting all the seduced-by-Superman letter-writers to put together something a lot more interesting than a few pages of "I loaned Blue Beetle a socket wrench."

***

It probably says a lot about how insular the celebrity-journalism industry is, that I never once considered what _Superman's_ reaction might be. I mean, Green Arrow never minded tell-all stories about him. Arsenal didn't seem to either, although he was harder to catch for interviews. Wonder Woman practically demanded media time to announce how women have the right to choose their own partners. And Superman's such a _good_ guy: polite, friendly, helpful. He doesn't get upset at anything other than crime. And only at nasty, violent crimes… he doesn't even really get angry at teenage shenanigans, just disappointed. So he wouldn't be angry about, oh, the _private details of his sex life_ being sold on newsstands across the country.

Right?

***

" _Steel Dreams_ ," as in Man Of, hit the stands like a zombie apocalypse: first a few sales to the overly-curious and their friends, then a few more, then it made its way through colleges, then it hit the airports and suddenly I couldn't keep up with the orders. The front cover was based on those NASA shots taken by the Hubble 'scope—the "Superman in the Stars" collection's pretty famous, but some of them aren't copied much. I used one where his head wasn't in the shot at all, but torso to knees was clear and distinct. It was probably the first time I'd ever thought of his symbol as a giant arrow pointing down, straight down to his trunks. When they say "space travel is exciting," I'm pretty sure that's not what they usually mean.

Were the stories true? I didn't care. I had signed affidavits from each of the submitters, and a disclaimer at the front of the book that said these were true to the best of their knowledge, but that exact details may not be correct, and most of the non-Superman names had been changed. It even hinted that some of the stories might be the result of hypnosis or encounters with deceitful shapeshifters.

The one-shot magazine was 80 pages of stories (23 encounters with people aged 14 to 85, all genders, all of legal age in their jurisdictions), photos (at the last minute, I decided not to use naked shots of anyone; I tried to convince myself this was a matter of taste rather than the poor quality of naked shots I had), quizzes ("test your knowledge of Kryptonian") articles (S.T.A.R. labs had some fascinating things to say about the cape's stretching and absorbent qualities), and of course, advertisements. It included ads for superhero costumes, clubs, websites, and novelty items. I turned down the more explicit sex-toy ads, but allowed a couple of lingerie companies with super-themed outfits, and a few of the more discreet toy ads. It sold for $9 a copy, and I expected to sell a couple thousand and make enough to tide me over until I found another job; I was stunned when I got requests to reprint. Twice.

That "other job" thing? Two days after it hit the stands, I got called into Mimio's office.

"Morrie?" He sounded tired.

"Yeah, Don?" I worked on my poker face. I was pretty sure what was coming.

"You're fired."

"Right."

"You know why."

"Yep."

"You know Legal's gonna come after you for poaching?"

I had, after all, received the first of those stories in my capacity as MwM editor. "I think I'm covered. Got a good lawyer on tap."

"Good." Nothing new there; people quit editing jobs to do their own thing all the time. Legal was kind of obligated to make some noise about it, but non-compete clauses tended to play second fiddle to freedom of the press. If CQ was _never_ going to publish the stories, how could I be hurting them by using 'em elsewhere? Don knew this; he was being friendly by reminding me. He scrubbed at his face.

"Jesus, Morrie… why?"

I shrugged helplessly. "Because it's the truth?"

He gave me The Look.

"Because it's news from reliable sources?"

The Look didn't waver.

"Because it's entertaining and the sources all signed affidavits insisting it's true?"

He snorted. That was, after all, a higher standard of accountability than most of the stories run in Heroic Headlines. Then he got serious again.

"Seriously, Morrie. How _could_ you? It's _Superman_."

I took a deep breath. This was the conversation I'd been dreading, and I knew I'd be having it a _lot_. In a way, it was nice to have it first from Don; he knew the industry. He ran the Titans dissolution story without breaking a sweat, ran the Green-Lantern-goes-mad fiasco without caving to the groups crying that he was "despoiling a galactic legacy." (No shit. Real quote.) If I couldn't get Don to understand, my chances with the general public—including the guys I play poker with on Thursdays—were nil.

"Nobody's above the spotlight, right? Isn't that what you've always said?"

"There's spotlight, and then there's poking a flashlight into bedrooms."

And offices, I didn't say. And rooftops. And half the sky over Kansas, apparently.

"I know that look, Morrie."

"It's just—it's always been okay when it's other bedrooms," I finally settled on. I knew he expected me to mention Green Arrow, but that was a cheap shot. Not that I'm averse to cheap shots—you don't get anywhere in hero journalism without getting used to pointing out the obvious—but this was about real precedents, not technicalities.

Don looked skeptical.

"Starfire," I said.

"Starfire is an _alien_ ," he shot back.

I raised my eyebrows. He sputtered.

"SUPERMAN IS NOT A SLUT!"

"And Starfire… is?" I left it hanging.

"No! Starfire is, is, a healthy young woman who… likes to express her affection physically."

Apparently, the marketing department had already fielded questions about some of the Starfire articles.

"So's Superman, apparently. Well, not so much the 'young woman' part, but otherwise… the two of them seem to have a lot in common. Maybe it's just an alien thing, and we humans have too many hang-ups about sex."

He groaned. "If you have any stories about the Martian Manhunter, never tell me."

"Okay, Don." Poker face.

"I repeat," he said, "NEVER tell me."

"Got it."

Manhunter, Starfire, Aquaman and Grace Choi were set to feature in volume 2, titled "Inhuman Pleasures." Turns out, when you run a call for submissions for "intimate superhero encounters," you get a lot of responses.

He glared at me again, but he couldn't hold it. He sighed. "Have you thought about what you're going to do when he notices?"

"He who?"

" _Superman_ , you idiot. Ever think that maybe he doesn't _want_ this kind of attention?"

I think I'd kind of imagined he just wouldn't notice it. I had a moment of panic, thinking about Superman seeing _Steel Dreams_ on some random newsstand. "I hadn't—he can't—there are laws!" I blurted.

"Like Superman is going to be stopped by journalistic shield laws. What if he goes after the people who talked to you? Jesus, what if he goes after _you_?"

Christ. I really _hadn't_ thought this through. Superheroes mostly ignore the news, except for the ones who actively seek publicity. Superman doesn't much comment on what anyone says about him, good or bad, even when he's pressured for it—but that doesn't mean he doesn't notice. And while all his interviews have been friendly, none of them has been about his sex life. And when they tried to ask, he politely refused to discuss it.

Don interrupted my worrying. "That, by the way, is the _real_ reason you're fired. Because when Superman gets wind of it—if he hasn't already—CQ is not going to provide you any excuses."

I nodded. It made sense; whether or not there'd be personal repercussions, CQ couldn't deal with being hated by Superman. Maybe I could. (Maybe he wouldn't hate me? The more I thought about it, the less likely that seemed, but I could hope, right?)

I gathered up my personal things into a couple of banker's boxes, picked up my final paycheck, and shook a few hands on my way out. Most of them had no idea why I was leaving, and I didn't tell them; just said it was "time to move on," which was the usual code-phrase for "the senior editor and I are never going to agree on how to run my column."

Then I settled in at home and bit my nails while I waited for sales reports. And tried to pretend I wasn't waiting for some kind of retribution from the caped community.

***

I kept myself busy while I was waiting, turned my den into an office, and worked on _Inhuman Pleasures_. I collected more stories—a lot about Superman, the expected outpouring about Green Arrow (fewer than those about Superman; I tried not to think about that), a flurry of stories involving various Titans and Outsiders, and a small cluster of improbables about the Batman. I decided those were too unlikely to publish, and besides, there was "risk taking" and then there was "suicide baiting." An angry Superman not only didn't kill people; he didn't hospitalize them. (Yet.)

I missed access to the team of interns who did the filing at CQ. Should I sort by name? By team? By year? By type of encounter—makeout, sex, kinky sex, _really_ kinky sex? Should I sort nonhuman and metahuman encounters differently?

I eventually settled on names, with color-coded tags to indicate team membership at the time of the encounter, if known. Encounters with no sex got green folders; most encounters got standard manila folders; things I considered "extreme"—I had no objective standards for that—got red folders. I made a hardline rule: if tentacles were involved, it was "extreme."

Encounters with villains went into another file cabinet entirely. I wasn't sure I ever wanted to do anything with those, but you never know. And besides, some villains are less villainous than others. Encounters with Deathstroke or Catwoman might be usable someday.

Sales were _amazing_ , which was great, because apparently I was now unhireable. Several magazines told me I was "very bold," and they respected that… but not enough to hire someone who might be a liability; so sorry, can't take the risk of negative attention from important personages, etc., etc. Translation: until we're sure you won't be turned into ash when Big Blue has a spare moment, you're not joining our payroll.

I started to get nervous. 

I hired some kid to bring me groceries so I wouldn't have to go outside. (Like Superman couldn't find my apartment. Right.) 

I started watching the news on TV, something I hadn't done for years. I recorded every clip of Superman to see if he looked angry, or angry at me, although I've no idea how I would know that. I suppose I was waiting to hear him say, _Morris Harvine, once I'm done dismantling these giant robotic lobsters, I'm coming for you._

He didn't. Weeks passed. 

_Inhuman Pleasures_ was almost ready to go to press, but now I was twitchy about it. I was worried about Superman—the guy everyone called "the big blue boy scout"—even though the new book wasn't about him. 

_IP_ was about people with reputations for serious violence. What if Grace Choi didn't like people to kiss and tell? What if she came after the people they told? Choi _broke_ people she was angry with. 

I told the publisher to hold off for a while; I was waiting for something. I let him think I had maybe one more story I was trying to track down.

Then I saw it—my sign, the one I'd been waiting for. Some art gallery was having its 50th anniversary with a special display on heroes, and Superman and some veterans were cutting the ribbon. After the obligatory speeches, the vets did some book-pimping because most of them had written biographies. And then that bitch Vale managed to get her question in.

"Superman! Speaking of books about heroic acts—have you seen _Steel Dreams_?"

He paused—which meant he _had_ seen it—and turned slowly to face her. I froze. He was going to announce my impending doom; I just knew it.

"Yes, Miss Vale. I believe I have." He looked maybe a bit stern, like he was irritated, but not really angry. (Of course, he only looks _really_ angry when he's fighting alien invasions or rounding up drug lords, so that didn't mean much.)

Well. Could be worse. He didn't say, "yes, and I'll be dealing with the author next."

Vale can't take a hint. Of course, if Vale dropped a line of questioning because the subject was unhappy with it, she wouldn't have a job, so. No surprises there.

"What did you think of it?

"It seems like some people have rather remarkable opinions about my private life."

"What are you planning to do about it?"

Superman sighed. "I'm a firm believer in the freedom of the press, Miss Vale. While I could occasionally wish for a bit more _accuracy_ in reporting"—he gave her a long look, and she had the decency to look abashed, if not enough shame to actually blush—"I can't forbid people from speaking—or publishing—what's on their minds."

"But isn't it libel?" She just wouldn't let go, dammit. And now he was looking downright annoyed. She was going to pester Superman until he agreed to destroy all copies and publicly condemn the author, and I'd never work in journalism again. Hell, I'd be lucky to _live_ —insulting Superman isn't just a bad career move; it's bad for one's life expectancy.

He frowned at her, obviously unhappy. Maybe he was remembering more about the book.

I grabbed my briefcase while he mulled over his answer. Maybe I could get out of Metropolis before he found me. (Yeah, right. Maybe demons would crawl out of the sewers while I was leaving and distract him?)

He replied, "From what I saw on the book jacket, I have met the people mentioned in the book. If they remember those meetings very differently from me, I can hardly punish them for that." Then he shook his head slowly, like he was disappointed. But not angry.

"But if they're—"

"Now, if someone else has something to ask about the gallery and its exhibits?" He turned back to the crowd of reporters, and took a question from the guy from _Soldiers Forever_.

Well. That was… promising. It didn't sound like he was going to come after me at all. It sounded like he thought all my submissions-writers were delusional, but I'd had that thought myself. Maybe there was some villain who went around changing people's memories so they thought they'd had sex with superheroes.

Didn't seem likely, though. Changed their memories and edited the pics in their cellphones? Bit of a stretch, that.

I decided that I had plausible deniability in case of weird lawsuits, and called the publisher to give the go-ahead for _Inhuman Pleasures_. After all, if Superman wasn't pissed at me, why should I be worried about anyone else?

I'm sure there was something wrong with my logic. I blame the porn. Months of reading erotic stories about flight, lasers, tentacles, and forcefields in the middle of explosions had obviously warped my brain.

I went to sleep calmly for the first time in weeks.

***

I woke up to Superman hovering at the foot of my bed.

"Aaaaggghhh!" I yelled and dove for the window, but got tangled in my blankets. I flailed wildly, trying to get away, but of course, that was useless. Superman caught my lamp when I knocked it off the shelf, set it back where it belonged, and then caught me, blankets and all, before I banged my head on the nightstand. He pulled me up into the air and hovered there, holding me wrapped up so I couldn't move.

I screamed. I struggled. I did all those stupid, futile things I'd seen bad guys do on the evening news. I tried kicking (he dodged), twisting away (I couldn't), biting and head-butting (couldn't reach); I couldn't even try punching because my arms were wrapped up and held. It was all just as effective for me as it had been for the villains he'd captured—i.e., not at all. He kept moving so that I couldn’t hit him—my kicks barely tapped him, and he shifted just enough that I couldn't get away or get the leverage for a better hit. When I twisted, he adjusted his grip: snug but not tight, and very, very secure. He didn’t react to the yelling at all.

Eventually, I ran out of blind-panic reactions. 

He was still holding me, only moving enough to make sure I didn't injure myself while trying to get away. Since I couldn't escape, I might as well talk to him. Or listen to him, which was more likely. Apparently, he wasn't going to kill me. (Not that he ever killed anyone. But hey. Everyone's got a breaking point, and "sex life being questioned by Vicky Vale on live TV" is well past it for most people.) Didn't look like he was going to incinerate my apartment and all its contents, either.

I stopped struggling. I couldn’t look at his face—nobody wants to see Superman mad, or even just disappointed. I tried to think of what I could say. What I _should_ say. How abject does an apology to an icon of heroism need to be?

“Morris—or, do you prefer Morrie? May I call you Morrie?”

“Call me anything you like as long as you don’t call me late for deadline,” I replied automatically. And then I realized who I was talking to, and felt myself turn red. “Superman?” My struggles had twisted me around so I was staring at the top of his shield—the symbol on his chest—and I just kept staring at it.

“Morrie, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I— I guess I’ve noticed,” I said. And then, “Um, why not?”

He chuckled at that, rich and low. “Because you haven’t done anything wrong?”

"I haven't?" I stammered.

"No, you haven't. Nothing at all," and I could hear the smile in his voice, so I looked up. Yep, smile. The good kind, not the slightly tense version that he uses for shaking hands with the mayor; no, I got the smile that he gives to the people who help him do rescues. Wow. It was kind of stunning.

And then it shifted, somehow, and there was suddenly more warmth, or a different kind of warmth, behind it. And that was beyond kind of stunning, but I really couldn't think about that right now.

"I'm very grateful to you, Morrie," he said. "You've brought a great deal of happiness to my life."

"I have?"

"Yes, you have. Your honesty and courage are commendable traits."

"They are?" Just call me Captain Smoothtalker.

He chuckled again, and pulled me closer, shifting me to one side so he could whisper in my ear. "I'm very indebted to you, Morrie. I wish I could find a way to bring you as much pleasure as you've brought me." And with that, he squeezed me lightly, just enough that I was aware of every inch of my body that was pressed against him.

I flushed red all over.

"I don't—I'm not—" I started to say, and he brought his hand up to put a finger over my lips.

"Ssh. Nothing you're not comfortable with," he said. "But if you'll let me, I'd like very much to share some of the happiness you've given me."

He looked at me earnestly, questioning, and I found myself nodding without thinking; this was _Superman_ ; if he wanted to do something to me, it must be okay, right?

And then I shook my head, because wait… what?

"Wh-What happiness?" I managed to croak out.

He was back to whispering in my ear. He had a low, sensuous voice that I don't think had ever been caught on tape. "Your book… people read it, and now they're willing to believe I'm interested in them." He touched my earlobe with his teeth—not quite a nibble, but a movement that could turn into one. "More, some are willing to make the first move themselves. I love that."

Superman was… Superman was nibbling at my neck. And whispering in my ear. And sliding one hand over my hip, pressing me firmly against his body.

I had to ask. I knew it was stupid, but I still had to ask.

"Are you… hitting on me?"

He pulled back to look at me. "Yes."

Yes. Yes, Superman was trying to get into my pants. Or rather, was trying to get permission to get into my pants, because I supposed that if he wanted my pants gone, there was nothing I could do to stop him.

"Oh." Yeah, apparently being hit on by superheroes brings out my natural eloquence.

"Is it working?" he asked.

What could I say to that? _Dude, I'm not gay, but…_

"I, ah, I'm not gay," I said.

"I don't mind," he replied with a smile.

"No, I mean—"

"I know what you mean, Morrie. I don't mind if you don't… reciprocate. I'd just like to make you happy for a while. Is that okay?"

I looked into his eyes, and he was looking at me, all serious and smiling and questioning. My throat caught, and I couldn't speak, but I nodded mutely.

He grinned, a look I'd never seen in any of the tabloid photos, and I knew I was in for a wild ride.

***

I was still reeling from the grin when I saw the blanket settle onto the bed; he must've removed it at super-speed. His chest was… warm. Very warm, and very much right there, and I never thought I'd see his shield, the big red "S," this close and personal.

Like, very personal, because his leg was sliding between mine.

Superman.

Superman was. 

Superman was _touching my dick_. He cupped me, outside my pajamas, and I felt myself start to get hard. (Hey, it's been a long time, okay? _A long time._ I don't get touched there much.) I let out a long, shuddery breath when I realized it, and heard him chuckle.

Superman trailed his fingers up and down, tracing around my dick (it feels _so weird_ to even think that, even though I'd published a book about people describing much more intimate activities), and then gripped me firmly, and I groaned. He slid his hand up and down, and I braced myself, expecting the fabric to pinch, but it didn't—and then I realized he was shifting his fingers just right to avoid that. It was a lot more… intense… than any time that my dick had been touched in the past. 

Not that those were a lot of times, but they'd all been pleasant enough, and also had involved girls. Women. Whatever. Not a man. Not a man who was taller than me and strong enough to spin me around and still hold me up while we were floating in midair and Superman was stroking my dick and—

I probably don't remember all this clearly. I could feel him, warm all over, warmer than the blanket had been, pressed against my back all the way from my shoulders to, to where he, I could feel him, and—

He murmured in my ear. "Just relax, Morrie. Nothing you won't enjoy, I promise." And he was so calm that I did, I stopped tensing, felt his hand stroke over me and

 _Vibrating_ he was vibrating his hand on my dick and moving it up and down and I'm pretty sure I yelled because I heard him hum in my ear. I got harder than I'd ever been in my life; I was so sure I was going to come in my PJs and part of me thought "gonna have a mess to clean up" and part of me thought "don't care don't care don't care" and the rest of me thought nothing at all because Superman's hands are magic and then—and then he pulled down my pajamas and the shock of cold air was all it took. I was spurting over his fingers, and he didn't slow down, didn't pull away, just… just _milked_ me until I was done...

I started to fall forward, and he was suddenly right there, in front of me, a warm chest to lean into; he tilted back until he was lying straight out in midair and I was laying on his chest, legs spread awkwardly to either side of his. 

This is the point where I was pretty sure I was supposed to remind myself, "but I'm not gay," because _he_ hadn't gotten off, and that was pretty obvious with me draped over his chest. And I tried. Thoughts like, "there's a guy's dick pressed up against me" flitted through my head, along with "damn that's huge" and "...he's not moving. He has to want to move. When's he gonna…"

He shifted, bringing his hand up to his mouth to lick his fingers clean, closing his eyes and looking for all the world like he loved the taste.

I guess he did; I had stories from a lot of people that said so. I just hadn't thought about what that would look like when it was my come he was tasting. I stared, and he gave me a cat-ate-the-canary smile, and I'm pretty sure I blushed. I squeezed my eyes shut because I wasn't ready to see him looking at me all exposed.

"Oh, beautiful," he murmured, and I felt his dick twitch, and I think I made some horrible surprised noise because I yanked a hand up to clap it over my mouth; he didn't need to hear my pathetic moaning.

He grabbed my wrist with his other hand. "I would have your sounds, Morrie," he said, but I shook my head. Too much. This was all too much. 

His hand cupped my cheek, then, and he said, "Very well—but if you need to silence yourself, use me." And he put two fingers on my lips.

I… "kissed them" is probably the wrong word. Opened my lips, touched his fingers with them. (I'd never thought of using lips to touch someone before.) He slid them into my mouth, just a bit, and said, "remember, you can't hurt me. Bite down if you need to." So I bit, gently, and heard him exhale. "Yes, like that. And harder is okay, too." I bit down a little harder, and his fingers slid in a little more so I closed my lips on them and sucked a little bit, and he rocked up against me, just a little bit.

I bit harder. He drew in a breath, and rocked again. His trunks were… bulging, is the only word for it. I could feel his his dick pressing against me, and for a moment I wondered _what does that look like, really?_ I'd seen pictures, but none up close and personal like this. I started to reach down to his trunks, but stopped myself. I shouldn't—tease, I guess it would be.

"Anything you'd like, Morrie," he said softly.

"I'm—I'm not sure," I said. "But I think I'd like to see…" I trailed off, not sure how to end that. He smiled again, and and pulled his trunks down to his thighs, with me half-naked and straddling him.

My first thought was: I'm very, very glad I'm not gay, because that's not getting anywhere near inside me. I gulped, and it twitched a little, and I reached for it without thinking, and then stopped, my hand looking ridiculous hanging in mid-air.

"Can I…" I couldn't finish the question. I wasn't sure I wanted to realize I was asking. I'd never touched another man's dick.

"I'd be… very happy to feel your touch, Morrie," he said. I looked up at his face, and his pupils were blown. 

I looked back down. It hadn't gotten smaller. I let my hand finish reaching, brushed the side of it with my fingertips… he drew in a sharp breath, and my hand closed around it. (Or rather, my hand almost closed around it.) He was _so warm_. His arms reached back and he rested on the bed, so he was arching obscenely for me, and I decided, I might as well go all-in.

I wrapped both hands around his length and he gasped. I gave a tentative stroke, just to see what it was like, and felt him twitch softly in my hands, and grow harder, if that was even possible. A tiny bead of fluid formed at the tip. and without thinking, I rubbed my thumb over it, just like I would do for myself.

He gave a sharp intake of breath and whispered something in Kryptonian. Then he twitched again, and I instinctively gripped harder, and he thrust into my hands. 

He whispered again, this time in English. "Your hands are so cool, so gentle. Please, please don't stop." More drops, until he was almost leaking; I slid one hand over the head and he groaned, full-throated enough to vibrate through me.

I ignored everything my brain was trying to tell me about "not gay" and "hey you're touching a guy's dick" and set about trying to get him to make that sound again.

Superman is very sensitive.

Also, multi-orgasmic.

And he brought me coffee in bed afterwards. 

I decided my "I'm not gay" idea was less true than I'd thought, even if the exceptions were currently limited to one.

***

Three weeks later, _Inhuman Pleasures_ was selling like hotcakes, and _Steel Dreams_ was in its fourth reprint. Superman hadn't returned—I didn't expect him to—but I did keep the keyfob he'd given me; he said if I needed help, I could squeeze it and call out for him, and he'd be there as soon as he could.

The reaction to _IP_ was more mixed. On the one hand, Grace Choi and Starfire had never been secretive about their… dalliances, I guess I was calling them. On the other, people didn't like to think of them as aliens; I got some hate mail for implying their anatomy might not match human norms.

I did not reply to the hate mail, but I wrote some cathartic letters that I never sent, involving close-up pictures of aforementioned anatomy. I'm not the one who "decided" on the shape of the Tamaranian clitoris.

The stories about Aquaman had apparently inspired some near-drownings as people tried to get his attention. I got flak for that, too, including a polite request from the Atlantean Embasssy asking that if I published more stories about their king, would I please notify them first so they could increase border patrols near coastal cities.

I replied as contritely as I could, apologizing for not letting them know and for any difficulties I'd caused. I offered to (try to) recall the issue and leave his stories out of future editions, and got back a letter declining, politely but very firmly: no, the king was not ashamed of his social life and wished humankind to know that he was not so different from themselves, but just please give them a bit of warning before next time.

So… I guess they assumed there'd be a next issue. Huh. I had been thinking that was it; maybe I'd put together one more collection— _Enhanced Encounters_ or something like that, because a trilogy works well for reprints—but that this was a one-shot (well, three-shot) interlude in the midst of a journalism career. The Embassy letters sounded like they expected me to make a full-time job of publishing superhero softcore porn.

I mused over that, filling a couple pages of notebook with potential ideas for future issues. Barely Legal – spotlight on teen (over 18, of course) superheroes. Amorous Antics, for those who seem to have repeat encounters with civilians, and some kind of relationship as well. Torn Tights, for situations involving clothing destroyed by superheroing. Troublesome Trysts, either encounters with supers who might not be on the "hero" side of the hero/villain line, or encounters with heroes while committing a crime. The More the Merrier, for threesomes and more.

Before I knew it, I had a 12-pack of themes, enough for an issue a month for a full year. Two years, if it went bi-monthly. Maybe I could make a career out of this, or at least a project solid enough to put on a resume.

That's assuming anyone would ever be willing to hire me again. That was a depressing enough thought that I went to bed grumpy.

***

I woke up in the middle of the night because something was making a tapping sound on my wall. I squinted at a dark shape crouched at the end of my bed.

"Whassa… um?" I said, and reached for the light.

Nightwing.

Nightwing, in his black-and-blue glory, smiling that pheromone-enhanced grin (okay, nobody was sure if that was true, but wow did it feel that way), was in my room. On my bed. Somehow managing to be less imposing than Superman had, even though he was closer. Maybe it was the crouching instead of hovering.

It was still a lot, though, so I flailed and backed up; he moved faster than a normal human could, caught my lamp before I could knock it off the table, put his hand between my head and the wall before I could clonk myself hard, and then returned to crouching at the end of the bed.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to startle you. Well, I meant to wake you up, but didn't want to scare you."

"Um," I repeated. And then I remembered what happened the last time a superhero was in my room. "I don't think I want to sleep with you," I said.

He looked at me sharply at that, and then relaxed. "Oh. Yeah, I guess after a visit from Superman, that'd be in the front of your thoughts. Don't worry; I'm not here to seduce you."

"That's good," I said sleepily. "Not that you're not, well, " I waved a hand at his physique, which was possibly the finest example of the male form I'd ever seen, certainly the finest I'd seen in person, "but, um, I'm not exactly gay. Still."

He nodded, not seeming offended. Good. When I was more awake, I'd have the chance to think back about how awful I sounded, about how many assumptions I had made. (Everyone knew Superman and Nightwing were friends, so… what, of course, Superman would tell him he'd had sex with me?)

I blinked at him. "So… something I can help you with?"

He shook his head. "More like, I'm wondering if there's anything I can help you with. You've made several of my best friends very happy, and I want you to know I appreciate it."

"Um, thanks?" I replied blearily.

"No, thank _you_ ," he insisted. "And I want to know if you need anything."

Nightwing was asking if I needed anything. The guy who took down Shrike was offering me a favor. I needed to be more awake for this.

"Coffee," I said before my brain filters kicked in.

He tilted his head. "You want coffee?"

"Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, I'm not awake. I need coffee. Only I probably need sleep more." I blinked. Not really awake yet, nope. And I was babbling at Nightwing. "Maybe you could send Starfire to wake me up next time."

Did I say that out loud?

Nightwing _grinned_ at me.

Apparently I did.

"Ohgod. I'm… going back to sleep now," I said, and pulled the covers over my head. If Nightwing was going to pound on me for suggestive comments about his sorta-ex sorta-girlfriend, I didn't want to be awake for it.

After a moment, I heard him chuckle quietly, and he patted my shoulder through my blanket. "Sleep well, Morrie. You've earned it." When I finally peeked my head out again, he was gone.

***

Starfire did not appear in my room the next night. Nor the night after that. Nor the next week, nor the week after that. (Not that I was waiting, or anything. Just maybe… hoping. A little.) I was trying to decide if I could write up my encounter with Nightwing so that CQ would publish it, in between doing editing and layout for Enhanced Encounters. I worked late and sometimes slept in until noon; I usually went to sleep by two or three.

I woke up one night because the light was flickering in my bedroom. "Turn i' off," I mumbled. I could sleep with the lights on; I couldn't sleep with the strobe effect. 

"I am sorry; I cannot turn off my hair," said a woman's voice I'd never heard before.

"Um?" I'm always very clever when waking up in the middle of the night. I blinked to clear my eyes, and… Starfire. Starfire was in my bedroom, and she was eight feet tall, and her hair was on fire.

Not all of it. Just the ends. It didn't seem to create smoke, and the sparks faded before they touched anything. That was the flickering light that woke me up.

"You." See, I get much more eloquent as I wake up.

"Me," she agreed. The she asked, "What about me?" 

"You're… Starfire."

She nodded. And smiled. She had dimples.

"Yes. And you're Morris Harvine, who shares our joy with the world."

"I am?"

"I ...think so?" She looked confused. "Are you not Morris Harvine? Do I have the wrong address?"

"No, I'm Morrie - Morris. I didn't know I was… that."

"Oh!" and she smiled again. "I am here because Nightwing said you would appreciate a visit from me."

"I. Ah. Yes. Well." Look, there's a reason I'm an editor, not a writer.

She flew over my bed, hovering over me, and that was an image I'm going to take to my grave. "May I hug you? Nightwing says many humans prefer to be asked before being touched."

Of course I said yes. Or rather, I nodded; I could tell that words and I were not currently friends.

Turns out that Starfire's hugs are substantially more energetic than most humans would call "a hug." And they involve less clothing. 

Starfire is also very sensitive.

Also multi-orgasmic. The shape of the Tamaranian clitoris apparently helps.

She did not make me coffee. She sang me back to sleep, instead. Tamaranian lullabies are the sexiest music I have ever heard, and if I hadn't been exhausted, I would've attempted another round.

***

I had enough material for another four 80-page specials, and the start of half a dozen more than that, with more stories arriving every day. It was time to give up on getting hired and set up shop for myself.

I looked for an office building. I didn't bother looking for a downtown address; I wasn't interested in being open to walk-ins, and a bit of distance might be a good thing. I still got some hate mail, and a real office meant maybe getting protesters, too. 

A real office meant a lot of money up front, though. On a lark, I tried out for a small business loan from the Wayne Foundation, one of their "supporting the arts" deals, but I knew I didn't really have a chance of getting it. I glossed over the actual description of what I wanted to publish ("true stories about heroic encounters," I think I said), and barely filled out the rest of the form; it was too much of a long shot to spend real time on. They never asked for any more detail, even though I'd barely put in more than my name.

I was surprised when I got an award letter, and even more surprised when I saw the amount. I was sure the top award had been $10,000, and this was for more than twice that. I called the Foundation to confirm; at first I thought it was a prank.

"Hi; this is Morris Harvine; I got an award letter from the… Arts committee? For, ah, my magazine?"

"Just a moment; let me look you up…." the voice was bright and chipper. "Oh yes, there you are! Morris Harvine, journalism award, twenty-five thousand dollars. Did you get the check?"

"Yes, I, I got it. I wanted to make sure it wasn't a typo or something. I thought ten thousand was—"

"Oh, that's just the standard amount that gets mentioned on the fliers. The actual award amounts are decided by the committee and approved by Mr. Wayne." 

"Oh. Thanks?"

"You're very welcome! If you have any issues depositing it, just have the bank call us and we'll clear it up!"

"Okay." I wasn't sure what else to say.

"Have a great day now!" She hung up.

I guess the rumor is true—he just signs the first dozen on the top of the stack every morning and ignores the rest.

The building I bought was already set for publishing; it used to belong to WindowRock Press, that activist group that wanted to "smash all the glass ceilings!!!!!" (with five exclamation points), but half of them got arrested and the two who actually knew how to operate printing equipment graduated and got real jobs. It was available because WRP had put their logo—a cracked window—on everything. The entire front window was an acid-etched monstrosity that looked like it was about to collapse but was actually bulletproof glass; must've cost them a fortune to make, and the seller didn't want to pay to replace it but couldn't find anyone else who'd put up with it. 

I fixed the window by adding to it—got some college kid named Kyle to draw a guy in a tights and mask crashing into the center of the "cracked" window, so it looked like a superhero was about to crash through it. 

I hired a couple of graphic designers and one layout/proofreader, and we were ready to go. I sent out a press release through the normal channels, and the Daily Planet sent over some nebbish reporter to take a statement. I got a couple inches on page 15, which was fine because it gave the email address for submissions.

Cruising Crusaders, Vol 1, Issue 1, was released in two months, after The More the Merrier, with an announcement that we were accepting stories for Thrills, Chills, and Spills, stories that involved rescue from high places, bad weather, or being thrown into liquids. CC ran with the caption "Heroes Who Want To Meet You!" and had more of the meet-and-flirt stories that never seemed to be solid enough to make it into the special issues.

We ran very few stories about Superman. Apparently, he rarely stops at flirting if he's welcome to continue, and he has a good sense for who'd like to continue. Which is, as far as I can tell, basically everyone. I mean, we could cut the stories short and use just the "hi-I'm-here-and-you're-sexy" part, but it seems like a waste. Those writers wanted their full stories told, and we had readers who wanted to read them, so I was, once again, stuck editing a magazine that couldn't get content about the World's Horniest Hero.

But there were lots of stories about Nightwing—must be those pheremones—and some about Superboy, and we found that if we ran something about Green Arrow I, next issue we'd be flooded with letters about Black Canary. And apparently there's a hero named Oracle who does incredible phone sex.

Nobody's seen Oracle, and there's always a voice modulator involved. But even caller ID can't return the calls—Oracle always calls from a dead number. Rumor has it that Oracle is the combined ghost of a superhero couple—maybe Spoiler and that Mister Sarcastic who was only around for a little while—who died in a powerline accident during the big earthquake a few years back. 

We don't run stories about Oracle. There's no pictures, and not enough details to verify that these are actually hero encounters. But we keep them in the files, just in case.

Business was great, other than the constant stream of perverts looking for a job, and no less than five visits from that damn Tim Drake kid who wants to be a photographer. He said he's willing to work for free. I told him to get lost and come back when he's 18; he's too young to be an intern here.

***

I finally had it – the Holy Grail, the ultimate in superhero journalism: Proof that the Goddam Batman exists.

We were planning on running with the headline, "IS BATMAN GAY?" and using various pics of Gotham to showcase our one real prize: a clear, non-blurry shot of Batman pressing some Bludhaven cop against the wall of an alley. The cops arms were wrapped around Batman's neck, and the cape had blown aside so you could see one knee raised between Batman's legs. Couldn't see the cop's face, though; that was turned away and covered by Batman whispering in his ear or kissing him.

It was perfect. I knew our streetlight cameras would pay off someday. (Oh, they had; we'd caught crime images and turned them over to the police, but this – this was perfect for us.) I spent the day in a happy haze, trying several different layouts to figure out the best way to show off the picture.

I went to bed happy.

I woke up, muzzy-headed and worried, in the middle of the night. At first I wasn't sure what woke me, but as my eyes cleared (I'd gotten kinda used to weird middle-of-the-night visits), I saw the dark, looming figure at the end of the bed.

The Batman was in my house. The Batman was in my room. The Batman was looking very unhappy. At me. He stood between the bed and the door and didn't move; I don't think he was breathing. The dim light from the street below just barely reached his face; his scowl was the only part I could see clearly. The shadows loomed even taller than him, stretching to fill the ceiling, and reaching toward the bed. The shadows moved toward me. He didn't. He was _controlling the shadows in my room_ and I felt something in my mind snap.

I froze. There's that feeling you get when you see a cobra or a panther, something dark and deadly, and you hope it hasn't noticed you—it didn't matter that he was looking _right at me_ ; something in my hindbrain knew it'd be worse to attract more of his attention. (I obviously already had all of his attention. My hindbrain was not listening to the part of me that knew that.) I had conflicting impulses: one part of me wanted to scramble backward and get away from the shadows and another was whispering "don't move don't move don't move maybe he'll just go away…" 

I squeaked. It was a very, very small sound, but I flinched anyway. He couldn't have missed it; he was completely silent.

He didn't say anything. Didn't move. I tried to figure out what to do next.

I took a breath. "Er. I suppose this is about the… article." _Maybe he doesn't know about the picture._ I refrained from trying to think about how he knew about the article at all, but… he's Batman.

He still didn't say anything. I swear the room got colder. There's rumors, you know, that he actually controls the weather in Gotham. Those are bunk. I'm pretty sure he has some kind of soul-draining power. The air's not actually colder; you just feel like it is.

"I could… I could not run it." I mean, that was shooting myself in the foot – best article EVAR – but I really really wanted him to go away and _never notice me again_.

He didn't reply.

"I'll… I'll can it," I decided. "Tear up the article, run something else."

When he spoke, low and intense, it sent a chill down my spine. "Do that," he said, and the part of my brain that wasn't gibbering was noting that he didn't even have to say "or else." I could hear it in the gravel in his voice; he was telling me that I really didn't want to face the consequences of failure. I found myself nodding and shaking. 

When I stopped shuddering, I said, "I, I'll do that, right now—" I turned to reach for my tablet to pull that story out of the lineup, and then realized that I'd _put my back to him_ and I couldn't even see the shadows reaching for me; I twisted back around, quickly—

He was gone. Vanished. Took his shadows with him.

I cancelled the story.

***

In the first year, I hired three editors, a full-time proofreader, and a reporter who went out to verify details that the letters often left out. Not the sexy details—we got plenty of those. We needed to verify things like dates and locations, because people kept forgetting to mention those.

If the story couldn't be placed on a timeline, we wouldn't run it. While the Flash could get pretty much anywhere on the planet instantly, Nightwing wasn't known for teleporting, so if we had an encounter in New York on Friday at noon, we weren't also running a story about him in India later that night. We'd pick the one with either the best pictures or most accurate description of his pheremone powers, and filed the other one as "possible mistaken ID or shapeshifter." 

If Starfire showed up on the front cover more than any other super, well… she's very photogenic. And flexible. It's never a problem to find a good Starfire pose that still leaves the article titles readable. 

  
_[Capes Quarterly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509578) art by gwenfrankenstien_

  


I got no more nighttime visits from superheroes. I sometimes considered calling Superman, but that seemed… petty. He'd given me a way to contact him in case of emergencies, and "my dick is lonely" didn't seem like an emergency. But I thought about it.

The second year, we doubled our staff, hired a photographer (NOT the Drake kid), and put up a website with discussion forums. Some jerk who went by IFoundTheTruth kept saying he'd figured out the Batman's identity—he posted a new picture every week, with the Batman on one side and some celebrity on the other, with the words, "THE BUTTS MATCH!!! THE FACTS DON’T LIE!!!!!" (The butts do not match. Besides, the Batman has a cape; you can't even see his butt.) We considered banning him, but after the first few, I realized that nobody could possibly believe anything he said. Still, we kept tabs on TheRealDraper@gothamfreemail.com in case he started causing real trouble.

The forums were an endless source of rumors, stories, and photos. I always enjoyed reading about encounters with capes, even if they weren't all the sexy kind of meeting.

***

Eventually, I put up a poster in the employee conference room.

1\. No mean stories. These are _heroes_ ; we're sharing news and entertainment, not vicious gossip. If you have to ask if a story is mean, it probably is. Stick to not-mean stories; it's not like we've got any shortage of those.

2\. No stories about the Batman. Ever. No exceptions.

3\. Confirmations go in the case file. Label them "alleged confirmations." They don't get printed; we can neither confirm nor deny the particulars of any story, other than to aver our sources' honesty. In case of subpoena, call Rachel Keast at the Themysciran Embassy.

4\. Check the list of authorized pseudonyms before submitting a story. Update to remove names that turn out to belong to any known person. 

5\. Orgies during working hours are to remain in the break room. Couch has a hide-a-bed. Clean up when you're done.

6\. No stories about the Batman.

7\. If it takes more than 200 words to describe a position, it's too complicated for the magazine; save it for the next book.

8\. Photos stick to prime-time TV standards: no penetration, no lower-body frontal-nudity, except in scientific diagrams.

9\. We are not a dating service. We do not arrange encounters. This includes requests by heroes. 

10\. NO STORIES ABOUT THE BATMAN.


End file.
